


Iron Bro

by Chokopoppo



Series: Homestavengers [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 23:20:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chokopoppo/pseuds/Chokopoppo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dirk Strider, the richest, most intelligent, technologically capable man on earth, son of the infamous Dave Strider and CEO of the Strider Tech Corporation, has a fascinating near-death experience and responds to it as any logical human being would - deciding to become a superhero.</p><p>Iron Man AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Thirty-six hours before the explosion, Dirk Strider was gambling in a ritzy casino, surrounded by attractive women and men alike.

Jake hated it when he did this. Dirk was his best buddy, and bro, and all you could ask for, but he was also completely nonchalant about missing a big awards ceremony, and he’d left Jake in the very uncomfortable position of having no one to hand the attractive, well-polished statuette to. Eventually, Meenah had made her way to the front and accepted the award for their missing friend, letting Jake in on where Dirk might be.  
So here he was, in a casino, trying to elbow his way through a crowd of very attractive women who kept sort of pushing up against him and smiling like so, and as usual, by the time he made it to Dirk, he was red in the face, flustered, and out of breath. “Dirk!”

Jake was given a view of half of his friend’s face before he was grabbed by the tie and pulled to a level plane with him. “Hey, Jake. Took you a while, didn’t it? I was getting a little worried, didn’t think I could stall for much longer.”

Uh. “Stall?”

“Yeah. I need this next roll to be lucky, and only the handsomest man in the room-“ He raised an eyebrow at Jake, “-Myself excluded, can give it all it needs. So.” He held his palms open and showed the dice to Jake. “Give me the luck, Jake. All of the luck. Even the luck that doesn’t technically exi- woah, harsh, man.”

Jake had slapped Dirk’s hands away, flustered and irritated, and scattered them across the table. Not a single one had scored above a three.

“Look, you-“ Jake jabbed an aggravated finger at him. “-you left me absolutely on my own, all barehanded and – and – I had to give it to Meenah, for god’s sake, and she gave a speech about how you were still working, I’m just relieved she was there – here, just take it!” He jammed the beautiful, shining, glasslike statue unceremoniously towards Dirk and glared. His friend took it carelessly.

“Oh, yeah, look at that, uh…” He seemed to be trying to find it interesting. “That’s, um, that’s just so beautiful, here, honey, would you take that?” He handed it casually to one of the well-endowed women rubbing her body on him. “Okay, let’s try rolling this one again, maybe you could give me some real luck this time, eh, English?”

~!~

On their way out, two relevant things happened. One, Dirk passed the statuette off to a complete stranger with the boredom of someone who gets the same award every year and really doesn’t care for finding somewhere to put the 37th one, and second, before they could get into Jake’s car, they were cornered by a very attractive, young, spirited reporter. She smiled with that rictus grin all reporters have and use with frightening regularity. “Hello, I’m Aradia Megido, from the New York Times, can I ask you a few questions?”

Dirk turned around, pulling off sunglasses with a practiced ease and giving the young woman a look. “No one ever said I was an unfair man, fire away.”

“Uh-huh. You’ve been called the Da Vinci of your time, what do you say to that?”

“That’s absolutely ridiculous, I don’t paint.”

“Okay, how about the merchant of death?”

“Uh…” He considered. “That one’s good.”

“Have you heard the accusations that your business is the number one cause of death in the Middle East?”

“Not possible. Guns don’t kill people, a business making guns doesn’t kill people. Listen – “ The shades went back on. “ – I bet your statistics aren’t going to tell you about the people our products have saved or protected. On the day-“

“My statistics-“

“On the day,” Dirk went on over her protest, “that people stop trying to kill each other every single day and no longer need to protect themselves from attacks with the weapons my company produces, I swear my company will switch over and start producing baby bottles, okay? Until then, I intend to continue the promise that Strider Industries has always made, that we will support peace by offensive defense, and you can write that down.” He jabbed a finger at her notepad.

Surprisingly enough, she was completely unfazed. “You really want to make love to yourself, don’t you?”

“I think about it every night before I go to bed.”

“Do you spend any of those nights alone?”

“I’d be willing to spend a couple with you.”

Jake refused to drive them home.

~!~

When she woke up the next morning after a rather long night, Aradia was completely alone in the room.

The narrative of her exploration of the Strider house is not important, and so will not be dissected or observed in any detail. She called Dirk’s name often, tried to enter a great number of doors she was not permitted to enter, and generally poked at buttons and had an adventure to herself, which was the important thing. She would find, however, that no amount of weird puzzle shit would get her downstairs, which would be quite frankly spelled out to her by the assistant in the house.

“Haaay, lissen,” the voice slurred from behind Aradia, “I’ve been watchin’ you fer like, an hour, an’ I’m preeeedy shur you’ve tried out lyke…all of them. Evury single door. Yer clothes are watched – washed – an’ ready fer you, so you should jes’ put ‘em on an’ go, mkay?”

Aradia looked the woman up and down. Tall, blonde, one hand holding a hanger of dry-cleaning and the other cradling a mostly-empty martini glass. A pretty woman wrapped in pink, from rather carelessly applied lipstick to designer heels, with a lopsided grin and half-lidded eyes.

Light dawned.

“You’re the famous Roxy Lalonde, aren’t you?” Aradia took a step forward, reaching for the dry cleaning (which was handed to her). “I’ve tried to get an interview with you for years. Can I ask you a few questions?” She smiled politely.

Roxy smiled back. “Nope.”

~!~

“Okeey, the big scary girl is allll gone, Dirky, I got rid of her for you. Yer fuckin’ walkum.” As Roxy descended the stairs, she yelled to her employer, and shut off ACDC.

“Don’t turn off my music, Roxy.”

“You were a’possa’be on a fuckin’ plane lyke two frickin’ hours ago, Dirk, whut the fuck is even up witchoo? You gotta bad hangover, need mommy ta drive you to the airport?”

“Are you in a bad mood?” Dirk looked up from the piece he was working on. “You sound like you’re in a bad mood.”

“Oh wow! What was yer first fuckin’ clue?” She snapped. “I flushed out yer new girlfriend, an’ I wanna take this day off, but I guess that ain’t gonna be all up an’ happenin’, is it, cuz I gotta drive yer un-drunk ass out to bumfuck nowhare jus’ cuz Jakey called me like fifty fuckin’ times askin’ about where you are.”

“Why do you want to take a day off? You can’t take a day off.” Dirk stood up. “And besides, I don’t need you to drive me, I can drive myself. I’m not totally smashed, you are. At barely four in the afternoon, too. New record.”

“I’m allowed to have a day off on my frickin’ birfdey, Dirk.”

“It’s your birthday?”

“Yeah. Funny, it’s the sayme day assit always is.” She gave him a look, and he knew inherently that he’d fucked up. “Now I’m gonna walk back up those staaairs, and YOOU’RE gonna follow me, get in one a yer fancy panties carsies, an’ I’m gonna get drunk in the house and not even care.”

“Is that what you do whenever I’m gone?”

“No, not gen’rally speakin’. But itsa speshul occashion.”

“Speaking of, buy yourself something nice for me.” He patted her on the shoulder, and left her to roll her eyes at his retreating back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been dicking around with the formatting for this chapter for almost an hour. I don't even care if it looks weird anymore. So anyway, have at it.

The plane was headed to some little country in the Middle East – Dirk decided to himself that it was therefore Afghanistan and made a mental note to never say the name of the country out loud, in case he was wrong (which he knew he was). The speech he gave to the American soldiers there was particularly full of himself and intimidating. He was quite proud.

“In the tales of Jericho, it is said that the walls came tumbling down, and that there was great weeping and moaning and gnashing of teeth. I studied the story carefully, and decided that not only could I promise that in a rocket, but I could promise a whole lot more. I always promise better than expected. That’s how dad did it, that’s how America does it…And it’s worked out pretty well so far.” The giant machine next to him turned up, rotated, set a missile in to launch. “Come up with a chance to fire off one of these babies, and I can promise you that you, and you alone, will personally escort the bad guys-“ He held up the trigger theatrically. “-to the gates of Hell.”

Press.

The force of the rocket shooting out of it’s casing was easily similar to that of a cork saying ‘fuck that’ to a champagne bottle, but the departure was nothing compared to the series of explosions that set off after it. The tiny, piercing, needle-like mini-rockets on the side of the main one departed like used propane tanks on the side of a space shuttle, each one dropping to blow in the air. “For your consideration, gentlemen…”

The final explosion hit a mountain behind them, the final target, and quite eloquently blew a hole through it. The resulting riptide of a shockwave traveled back faster than the missile had gone. Dirk never looked back, just raised his arms like a scarecrow. “…The Jericho.”

The shockwave hit.

Dirk stumbled forward, knees threatening to give from the back, and still he did better than the soldiers attending the meeting (to be fair, he knew exactly how hard the wave would hit, and they did not). They fell back, smacking each other and stumbling around like a particularly messy game of dominoes. He coughed, adjusted his sunglasses, grinned out.

Sure that he had made at least five sales that day, Dirk ordered a lackey to crack open one of the dry-ice machines full of champagne glasses not a full ten minutes later. “Oh, by the way, with every purchase of one thousand or more, we throw in one of these babies for free. Capiche, general? Okay, good, we’re done here.” He held up a glass, and the men around him raised their own as well. “To peace!”

 

~!~

 

“Dirk, by gum, you know how dangerous these old bangers are!” Jake was a little worse with handling alcohol than most people, and by most people one means any person who ever has existed or ever will. One glass of gin and tonic, and he was slurring worse than Roxy after a particularly bad day. “You stay in whatever rolling snaptrap I’m sitting tight in, eh? Unreliable automobiles are so bloody common these days, you know, you can’t go wrong in one if you’re hanging roundly with me.”

If there was one thing Dirk did not want to do, it would be getting trapped in a small, enclosed space with a drunk Jake English. “Listen, Jake, this is the funvee, okay? The humdrumvee is back that way. Come on, buddy, don’t make this difficult on yourself.”

Jake got the face of one who knows he is being insulted but for the life of him can’t figure out where the insult is. “Dirk, you are…some kind of face-kicked jackass, I should be quite certain to say. I will go back to my rolling old boxcar and you will snuggle up in your contraption and none will be the wiser, eh?” He nodded to himself, then stumbled away with the help of Dirk’s guiding shove, toward the car just behind in the little train of vehicles. Dirk nodded to himself, then hauled ass into the dark room of an armored car.

The trip started off silent, despite the number of people jammed inside – there were four or five soldiers in there with him, as though that many people were really necessary to protect the famous Dirk Strider, like he wasn’t (aside from his face) completely covered in bullet proof material and more than competent with handling a gun. But people worry, and he wasn’t going to argue with his most consistent customers. However much they thought he needed, he’d let them cram onto him. It was just irritating that the cramming was completely silent, as if there were some rule he’d never been told about that meant no one could say a word. “Is there a rule about no one being able to talk? No talking?”

“No, sir, I’m afraid you intimidate them.” The rather female voice came from the otherwise androgynous driver. It was a decidedly un-American voice, more clipped and proper and sounding like a highly educated British woman, the kind who said ‘perquisites’ rather than ‘perks’. Dirk looked at her face again, and realized that, yeah, she did look female.

“My god, you’re a woman. I would apologize, but that’s kinda what you guys are going for, huh?” She chuckled. “Actually, I’m finding it kinda hard to stop looking at you now, is that weird?” That made her laugh outright, along with a number of the other members in the car.

The car, after half an hour of silence, filled up with noise. Some of the soldiers asked to take their pictures with him, he made everyone give him their names, he asked the driver (Jane) for her number a couple of times, and it was, in general, a good time for everyone. And, like every good time for everyone, it was doomed to end shortly.

Insurgents had camped the road, and it only took them one rocket to ruin Dirk’s day. The missile hit, the Humvee shook, the one behind them swerved, and all around him, his ears filled with the sound of gunfire. He shouted desperate inquiries to the men around him, but they could barely hear, and they were too busy grabbing weapons and throwing themselves out of the vehicle. Jane was the first one out, hitting the ground by her feet and then hitting it again by the knees as something caught her right off the bat. She collapsed and curled in a heap, like a pill bug, followed by the next several men out. The last one grabbed Dirk by the shoulder and gave a curt “Stay here!” Before throwing himself out the door, firing off like bullets were free and no one gave two shits.

Dirk did not intend to stay inside.

He was in there for maybe four seconds, then threw open the door on the other side of the car and rolled his ass out, grabbing the gun out of the hand of a wounded soldier and loading it up to fire, using the car as cover. He never got to use it, due to one missile well-aimed for the ground right under the car and a badly timed jam in the semi-automatic, but it was best to remain proactive. Or, in the case of explosion-based projectiles, it was best to run and find other cover, which Dirk did shortly before the door he had escaped from came hurtling past him.

As he pulled the gun in front of him, pulling out the clip and checking to see what had jammed, another projectile hit the ground not eight feet away from him, clearly labeled Strider Industries. He recognized it – it was the last weapon he’d designed sober.

Today was just not his day.


End file.
